Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries)

by Robert G. Bernstein

  Aaron had a pint of Captain Morgans. He topped off my coffee with it and then did the same to his own. I doubt he trusted me or even liked me. However, he seemed the kind of guy who couldn’t be anybody other than himself. He was just so used to playing host on the boat he didn’t know any other way to act. He couldn’t help himself.

  I relinquished the helm and slid forward so he could take hold of the tiller. He was a natural on the boat. He had motored us through the shoal waters of Reef Harbour and Wheeland Cut in the pitch black without making me the slightest bit nervous. His eyes were always moving, paying attention to every detail. By the time we had fetched open water, set sail and rounded-up, he no longer regarded me as Grande Angil, the charter boat captain and private investigator from Maine who appeared out of nowhere to ruin his plan for revenge. Instead, I was the guest and passenger aboard his pride-and-joy, sharing his love of the sea.

  I took a sip of my coffee. It was no comparison to the Jamaican drink I’d had at the Sharkbite Restaurant, which had whipped cream, coffee liqueur and chocolate sprinkles, but in the dark of night, running smooth as a tuna through the warm waters of the Atlantic, smothered in a hat full of shimmering stars, it tasted much, much better. I took another swig of my coffee and wiped warm spray off my face and felt the seas astringent qualities working on my skin. In a way it was like the booze in my drink. Therapeutic at one level. At another level, potentially dangerous.

  “Continue what you were saying, Aaron,” I said. “After you read your father’s papers . . . what? You went to Maine and met up with Tanner?”

  “Not quite,” Aaron said. “I had already been fishing with Tanner for a few months. The plane and all that shit was something in the back of my head. I hardly ever thought of it. Then one day we were scalloping around Hammond Ledge. We took a lunch break and I mentioned the plane. Tanner thought we should look for it. So that’s what we did. It took us about two weeks to find the first bottle. Buried in white sand and shell between the boulders out there. Later that night, Petey and I got kinda stoned. He was horsin’ around and popped the top off the bottle, daring me to drink. It was about half full and mixed with seawater and God knows what, urchin and mussel jizz. Fuckin’ gross. I wouldn’t do it. He called me a pussy and laughed and then he chugged the bottle. Crazy asshole. Later that night I thought he was going to kill me or himself or both of us. He was out of his fookin’ mind crazy. I split and didn’t come back for a few days. When I did come back I found him in sorry shape. He barely survived the ordeal. It scared him, and Petey didn’t scare easy.”

  The moon poked its way over the eastern horizon as Aaron was talking. He had moved to the leeward side of the boat and was waiting for it, noticed it before I did. Just abaft our starboard beam. It arrived as a hint of pale whiteness and rose quickly. I shifted in my seat, placed my back against the cabin and faced aft to get a better view. We watched in silence as it raced to fully reveal itself. A half moon, casting a pale beam toward us across the tops of the seas, usually a turquoise color but now black as the night, except for where the moon beam shone on the white caps. We respected the moment, let the wind in the sails and the boat slicing through the water serve as musical accompaniment.

  “It’s a long way from finding a bottle in the ocean to blackmail and extortion,” I said. “Who’s idea was it to go after your father’s and brother’s killers?”

  “Mine,” Aaron said with a snarl. “Pete wanted to sell the stuff. I mean, he was already dealing drugs. That’s all he knew. Petey never really had much goin’ for him.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I said. “How’d you do it? How did you get to English and SafeOps?”

  Aaron took a slug of coffee and swallowed.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “They came to me. I knew nothing about SafeOps and English. I just knew it was somebody, and I figured they were keepin’ an eye out. I used the commercial ship paper Boats & Harbors. You know which one?”

  “The Yellow Paper,” I said. “Boat dreamer’s bible.”

  “That’s it,” Aaron said. “I dropped an ad in there. It said: Sunken Plane Found. Gulf of Maine. Possible Treasure. Investors Wanted.”

  “Smart,” I said. “How long did it take to get a response?”

  “About three months. The guy who contacted us — we figured him for English much later — he wanted Tanner to come to Maryland, but Petey had other ideas. This part of it was all Petey, because he had pot and coke connections all over Rockland. So we told this English guy to book a room at The Navigator. We figured while Petey was talking to him in the bar, I’d be in his room, hack his laptop or something.”

  “I can’t imagine a guy like English leaving anything incriminating in his room,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t,” Aaron said. “I kind of messed up there. But talk about blind luck. There was a huge freakin’ storm that night. The cell tower blew down on Dodge Mountain. No service. So English had to use the hotel phone. Petey had this coke slut at the hotel and she gave us a copy of his bill. From the phone log I got a number in Provo. English made two calls to Provo and both times it was to the same number. Mellville Aviation and Transport in Five Cays.”

  It was nine thirty-seven and we hadn’t been under sail for very long. We still had another four or five hours to go, provided the wind held. Soon we would round the Northwest point of the island, ease the rudder and let the boat fall off the wind. We would have to drop the two smaller fores’ls and wing out the jib and main. If all went well, the downwind leg would give us both a chance to catch a couple of hours shuteye. I wanted us plenty rested by the time we made our final course change at West Reef.

  “Your turn,” Aaron said.

  “Not much to tell, Aaron. We followed a money trail here. Pure and simple. Something Senator Hollyoake said tipped us off.”

  “My father’s old partner at the firm?”

  I nodded.

  “I used to think he was involved,” Aaron said. “What did he say?”

  “That venture capitalists often look to their own kind when seeking investors. After Greenbrier, we had SafeOps by the balls and a U.S. Senator in our corner. It gave the cops a free reign for search and seizure. Turned out English had a big stake in Mellville Aviation. So did half a dozen other guys at SafeOps.”

  Aaron was leaning on the tiller, laying all his weight on it, as if the carved wood tiller and heavy rudder would transfuse his pain and anguish through the pintle bearing and stern of the boat. I looked at him and got very sad. I pictured him sailing from Maine all the way to the Caribbean, down the East Coast of the U.S., spending long, arduous nights alone, sitting in just this position and thinking about his brother and father burning up in a fire, his mother horribly disfigured. If only it were true, and maybe it was, that the tiny whirlpools of swirling water coming off the trailing edge of the rudder would carry some of Aaron’s troubles into the deep.

  “I feel kinda bad about suspecting Hollyoake,” Aaron said.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” I said, deciding not to elaborate.

  Aaron shrugged.

  “All this time down here,” he said, “six months, waiting, not knowing what to do. Petey was supposed to send me information, a picture, something, anything to go on. All I had was the name Mellville.” He laughed. “Well, guess what? Not one fookin’ Mellville on the whole fookin’ island. Not on the Turks. Not on the other Caicos. Not a single Mellville. It’s just the name of that stupid cargo business in Provo. Named after some dead guy.”

  “You’re lucky,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if you’d gotten close, Aaron, you’d be dead. Trust me. This guy is way out of your league.”

  “But you can take him?”

  “I can and I will,” I said.

  We sat quiet for the next forty-five minutes and then it was time to reduce sail and make our turn to port. We accomplished the task without talking, two shipmates in the zone, doing what needed to be done with an economy
of motion. After the turn, the boat adjusted nicely to the following sea. She rode high and dry and headed for her intended destination like a barn-soured filly.

  In the lee of the island we lost a little of our push and two knots, which meant a Juba Point E.T.A of zero five hundred. If I had it figured right, I would have one and one-half to two hours before sunrise, just enough lead time to prepare Aaron and plan my next move.

  “Aaron,” I said, as the boat meandered its way southward. “You got any solvent and oil on the boat?’

  “Of course I do. Why?”

  “Let me see that old Wembley.”

  48

  The Caicos Marina and Shipyard was up a short creek Northeast of Juba Pt. The approach was from the South, a straight shot past a series of buoys either side of which lay numerous rock and reef hazards. Aaron guided us in expertly and we tied up against the quay, about one-hundred yards below where Mellville had his yacht.

  I had already spotted the rental car early the previous day. My bags were packed and everything I needed was in the trunk. All I had to do was get Aaron on the same page. We sat in the cabin illuminated by a small flashlight. The Wembley, freshly cleaned and oiled but still in horrid and questionable shape, rested on my lap. There were only three shells for it and all of them were badly corroded.

  “We do this my way,” I said. “No hot doggin’.”

  “I know the plan,” Aaron said.

  “You’ll follow my lead,” I said. “No bullshit revenge heroics. I won’t even know it’s the right guy until I see him face to face.”

  “Right. I got it. You told me this five times already. Come on, let’s go. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

  “That’s what worries me,” I said.

  “Well, stop worrying,” he said. “I’m not a kid.”

  I shined the light at him, stared into his eyes and shook my head. What the hell? I couldn’t let him out of my sight now.

  “Take off the earring, the bracelets and the necklace” I said. “Tie your hair back. And put on your nicest clothes. I want you to shave, too.”

  He left to do what I had asked. While he was gone I emptied my pants pockets and placed the contents on the settee beside me. The two passports, the signed extradition, the tiny bottle of Halothane, gauze pads, the bottle of Rohypnol and the duct tape. Aaron came back looking like I’d hope he would, wearing darks slacks, a Navy blue short sleeve shirt, dockers and dark socks. He sat opposite me and held out his hand. I handed him the passports and the signed extradition.

  “You’re my assistant,” I said. “When we get to the airport. You hand the guy at the gate all three of our passports. You have yours?”

  He nodded and slid it out of breast pocket.

  “Do you have a brief case or a small suitcase?”

  “Nothing like that,” he said. “Oh wait—”

  He left for a few seconds and came back with a creme-colored belly pack.

  “Perfect,” I said. “We’ll be going through a side-gate reserved for charter flights so it shouldn’t be an issue. You’ll walk ahead of me and hand everything to the agent. I’ll be busy pushing Mellville in the wheelchair that right now is folded-up in the trunk of the rental. Whatever you do, hold onto the extradition paper. Don’t use it if you don’t have to. Pull it out only if Mellville makes a fuss. Just reach into the pack and hand the customs agent the paper as if you had just thought of it. And Aaron, you have to remember all this, because once we’re all together we don’t want to talk. No matter what Mellville says, don’t answer him. We don’t talk to him. We don’t talk to each other.”

  Aaron nodded. He opened my passport, shut it and placed it in his pack. He then opened Mellville’s passport and stared at it. He stared at it for a long time.

  “I’ve seen this guy around,” he said. “I think he’s a big wheel down here.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “You ready?”

  “Wait,” Aaron said. “How come we need a passport for Mellville? Doesn’t he already have one?”

  “Not like this,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  We left the boat and walked to my rental in the parking lot. I gave Aaron the keys and while I changed out of my loud Hawaiian shirt and into a grey button-down and blue sport jacket I nodded toward Melville’s boat, a fifty-five foot Euro-style express cruiser about one hundred yards away.

  “That’s it,” I said, tucking the Wembley inside my waistband and belt. “Don’t do anything until you see me. When you see me waving from the cockpit, start the engine and drive to the front of the boat. Don’t get out. I’ll bring him over and he and I will get in the back seat.”

  Aaron was full of nervous energy. He nodded and opened the door and got in and was just about to slam it shut when I caught it by the edge and short-stopped it.

  “For Crissakes. Quietly, eh?”

  I eased the door closed with my palm, then gave Aaron a thumbs-up through the window and headed for the yacht.

  This time of year, in this part of the world, the moon and sun rise and fall in virtual synchronicity, one just barely getting a glimpse of the other before the change from night to day. The phenomenon creates an effect such that everything appears with an eerie, sallow glow, as if colors have been washed by bleach and tainted yellow. I strode through this bizarre lighting with head held high, like I belonged and knew where I was going. When I got to Melville’s yacht I gingerly stepped onto the moulded swim platform, opened the transom door and walked onto the cockpit. I didn’t look around to see if anyone was nearby when I jimmied the sliding door with my jackknife. I just pried it open and entered, then shut it behind me.

  From where I stood I could see the fo'c's'le stairs and the bottom of the door to the forward cabin. The Wembley was in my right hand as I headed down. There were four steps, covered in carpet. The head was to port. A small guest cabin with over and under bunks was to starboard. Both were empty. Master suite was dead ahead. I heard snoring. Perfect.

  The brass knob to the cabin felt small and cold in my hand. It turned and opened the door with a muffled creak. Stepping quickly and quietly, I moved to the head of the bed and pressed the barrel of the Wembley against the temple of the cabin’s sole occupant.

  James Hadley opened his eyes.

  “Who’s the blivit now?” I said. “Get dressed.”

  49

  Hadley/Mellville believed I would shoot him, which was why he decided to dress himself and take the two pills I had given him. Rohypnol, commonly referred to as the date rape drug. Not quite the super-duper spy spray he had unleashed on me but, hopefully, equally capable of turning a snide, arrogant ideologue into a steerable, submissive robot. The Wembley helped, and it made the Halothane unnecessary, at least for now.

  “I fear I may have underestimated you,” Hadley said, slipping a dark green Izod Pique Polo shirt over his head. He had already donned a pair of stone-colored chinos.

  I was sidesaddle on the bed and had the barrel of the Wembley aimed at his chest.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I said.

  “My whole life I’ve been putting up with people like you,” he said. “You don’t see what’s going on. It’s starting again, too. People like you. Bowers. Don’t give a shit about this country.”

  “Listen to me, James.” I took the vial of ether out of my pocket. “You’re stalling. See this. It’s ether. If you don’t hurry the fuck up and get dressed I’m going to knock you out and drag you out by your heels. Your choice.”

  “Maybe I’d rather be shot,” he said.

  “Also your choice,” I said. “I’m good ether way. Get it?”

  Hadley did, but he didn’t think it was funny. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

  “They’ll catch you, you know,” he said. “The British authorities will investigate my disappearance. I’m a big deal here.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said. “As James Hadley. Not as Preston Mellville. Your little subterfuge is finally going to work out for some
one else’s benefit. Mine.”

  Hadley put on his socks and shoes and was starting to feel woozy. I needed him to feel a lot more woozy before we got to the airport, when I’d have no choice but to use the Halothane. For the moment, there was no hurry.

  “You’ll never unerstan,” he said.

  “Explain it to me,” I said. “I can be reasonable.”

  He was fully dressed now, sitting on the end of his bed, looking a bit drunk. Maybe two pills was one too many.

  I looked inside Hadley’s closet and found a Panama hat to stuff on his head, then I grabbed him by the arm and led him topside. He was very pliable and cooperative, enough so that I could tuck the Wembley back in my pants.

  “Have a seat,” I said, plopping him down at the galley. “When did you decide to kill off Preston?”

  “Oh, that was a long, long time ago.” Hadley said, leaning back in his seat. “About the time the President was fuckin’ the pooch in ‘Nam. Egg-suckin’ dog. Let the hippies get the best of him. But ole Preston, he saw an opportunity. All that military hardware up for grabs. Planes, guns, choppers. Preston, he did some ba-ad things those last couple years in Vietnam. Hooked up with some ba-ad people. He had to go.”

  “So you killed him and become James Hadley.”

  “Plane crash. Fitting end for a brave American.”

  Hadley’s head rolled from side to side. His eyes closed and he started to snore. I gave him a slap to wake him up.

  “Wha— ?”

  “You messed up,” I said. “You combined details of Mellville’s past into Hadley’s. Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to work in National Security. I needed some of Mellville’s credentials, hiz schoolin’ an’ early military training. Nobody would ever known if Bowers hadn’t poked his fuckin’ nose in it. That how you found me out? Runnin’ background checks on both Hadley and Mellville?”